Britt-Marie Was Here (41 page)

She stands on the balcony of Bank’s house, feeling Borg blowing tenderly through her hair. Not so hard that it ruins her hairstyle, just enough to feel the breeze. The newspaper delivery drives past while it’s still dark. The women with the walkers slowly make their way out of the house opposite, towards their postbox. One of them waves at Britt-Marie and she waves back. Not with her whole arm, obviously, but with a controlled movement, a discreet movement of one hand at the level of her hips. The way a person with common sense waves. She waits until the women have gone back into the house. Then she sneaks down the stairs and carries her bags out to the white car with the blue door.

Before dawn she’s standing outside a door, and knocking.

I
f a human being closes her eyes hard and long enough, she can remember all the times she has made a choice in her life just for her own sake. And realize, perhaps, that it has never happened. If she drives a white car with a blue door slowly down a road through a village, while it’s still dark, and if she winds down the window and takes deep breaths, then she can remember all the men she has fallen in love with.

Alf. Kent. Sven. One who deceived her and left her. Another who deceived her and was left by her. A third who is many things she has never had, but possibly none of the ones she has been longing for. And she can slowly, slowly, slowly unwrap the bandage from her hand and look at the white mark on her ring finger. While dreaming of first love and other chances, and weighing up forgiveness against love. Counting the beats of her heart.

If a human being closes her eyes she can remember all the choices in her life. And realize they have all been for the sake of someone else.

It’s early morning in Borg, but the dawn seems to be holding off. As if it wants to give her time to raise her hand. Make up her mind.

And jump.

She knocks on the door. It opens. She wants to say everything she
feels inside, everything she has been carrying, but she never gets the chance. She wants to explain exactly why she’s here and nowhere else, but she is interrupted. It makes her disappointed to realize she was expected—and that she’s so predictable.

She wants to say something about how it feels, to open her chest and let everything flow for the first time, but she is not given the opportunity. Instead she is led with a firm hand back to the road. The pavement is dotted with plastic petrol cans. As if they’ve fallen off the back of a truck.

“Everyone in the team collected money. We’ve worked out the exact distance,” says the boy.

“Those of us who can count have worked it out, yes,” the girl interjects.

“I can count!” the boy cries angrily.

“Just about as much as you can kick a ball, so, yeah, like, you can count to three!” The girl grins.

Britt-Marie leans forward and feels the plastic jerrycans. They stink.

Something brushes against her arms and it takes a good while before she realizes the children are holding both of her hands.

“It’s petrol. We’ve worked it out. There’s enough here to get all the way to Paris,” whispers Omar.

“And all the way back,” adds Vega.

They stand there waving while Britt-Marie gets into the driver’s seat. They wave with their entire bodies, the way grown-ups never do. Morning comes to Borg with a sun that controls itself and waits respectfully on the horizon, as if wanting to give her enough time to make a last choice, and then to choose for herself for the first time. When daylight finally streams in over the rooftops, a white car with a blue door starts pulling away.

Maybe she stops. Maybe she knocks on just one more door.

Maybe she just drives.

God knows Britt-Marie certainly has enough fuel.

It’s January in a place that is one of millions rather than one in a million. A place like all the others, and a place like no other.

In a few months, six hundred miles away, Liverpool will almost win the English Premier League. In one of the last matches they will be leading 3-0 against Crystal Palace, but in eight surreal minutes they will let in three goals and lose the League title. No one in Liverpool will ever know anything about Borg, they won’t even know the place exists, but no one who drives down this road with their windows rolled down will be able to avoid hearing the whole thing as it happens.

Manchester United fire their manager and start again. Tottenham promise that next season will be better. Somewhere out there, people can still be found who support Aston Villa.

It’s January now, but spring will come to Borg. A young man will rest beside his mother in a churchyard under a blanket of scarves; two children will fall over themselves to deplore useless referees and pathetic sliding tackles. A ball will come rolling and a foot will kick it, because this is a community where no one knows how not to. A summer will come when Liverpool loses everything, and then autumn will arrive and along with it a new season, when they have another chance to win everything. Soccer is a mighty game in that way, because it forces life to go on.

Borg is exactly where it is. Where it has always been. Borg is a place by a road that exits in two directions. One direction home and one to Paris.

If you merely drive through Borg it’s easy to notice only the places that have been closed down. You have to slow down to see what’s still there. There are people in Borg. There are rats and walkers and greenhouses. Wooden fences and white jerseys and lit candles. Newly laid turf and sunny stories. There’s a florist where you can only buy red flowers. There’s a corner shop and a car mechanic and a postal service and a pizzeria where the TV is always on whenever there’s a match, and where it’s no shame to buy on credit. There isn’t a recreation center anymore, but there are children who eat bacon and eggs with their new coach and her dog in a house with a balcony, in a living room where there are new photos on the wall. There are marginally fewer “For Sale” signs along the road today than there were yesterday. There are grown men with beards and caps who play soccer in the beams of headlights from old trucks.

There’s a soccer pitch. There’s a soccer club.

And whatever happens.

Wherever she is.

Everyone will know Britt-Marie was here.

N
eda. The greatest blessing in life is to be able to share it with someone who’s much smarter than oneself. I’m sorry you’ll never get to experience that, it really is unbeatable.
Asheghetam
. Sightseeing.

Jonas Axelsson. My publisher and agent, who never loses sight of the fact that I am still a beginner, and that his foremost task is to help me get better at writing. Niklas Natt och Dag, who, in his texts and his respectful artistry, reminds me every day that this is a privilege. Céline Hamilton and Agnes Cavallin at Partners in Stories, where a large houseful of competence is slotted into the walls of a fairly small house; using equal parts of brain and heart they have kept this project on course. It wouldn’t have worked without you. Karin Wahlén at Kult PR, who got it from day one. Vanja Vinter, grammatical elite soldier and uncompromising, outstanding proofreader, editor, and critic, although her cutlery drawer is one prolonged disappointment. Nils Olsson, who patiently, sensitively, and with great love, has designed three fantastic book covers. Andrea Fehlauer, who stepped in as the editor of key sections of the book, bringing both his experience and his precision to the task, and without a doubt improving the book as a result.

The readers of my blog, who were there from the very start. All this is actually mostly your fault.

Torsten Wahlund, Anna Maria Käll, and Martin Wallström, who recorded my stories as audio books and gave voices to my characters in ways I did not think possible. They are more yours than mine now. Julie Lærke Løvgren, who has overseen the publication of my books internationally. Judith Toth, who got me there. Siri Lindgren at Partners in Stories, who makes sure the boat does not capsize when Jonas refuses to sit still in it. Johan Zillén. First in, last out.

Everyone who was and still is involved in my books at Forum, Månpocket, Bonnier Audio, and Bonnier Rights. Especially John Häggblom, without whose help I would not be here today. Liselott Wennborg, the editor of
Saker min son behöver veta om världen
[
Things My Son Needs to Know about the World
]. Adam Dahlin, who saw the potential. Sara Lindegren and Stephanie Tärnqvist, who have always been far more patient with me than I deserve.

Natur och Kultur, who have given us their support, especially Hannah Nilsson and John Augustsson.

Pocketförlaget and A Nice Noise, who believed in all this.

All who have reviewed, written about, blogged, tweeted, Facebooked, Instagrammed, and spoken about my books. Especially those of you who really did not like them, and took your time to rationally and instructively explain why. I can’t promise that I became a better writer as a result, but at least you forced me to think. I don’t think that can be a bad thing.

Lennart Nilsson in Gantofta. The best football trainer I ever had.

Most of all, thanks to all of you who read my books. Thanks for your time.

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